


In the Fade, Our Secrets Dream

by My_Immoral



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bisexual Cassandra Pentaghast, Dream Sex, F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, Lesbian Sex, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Strap-Ons, Undefined Female Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 15:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18780928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Immoral/pseuds/My_Immoral
Summary: "Inquisitor, I hope you understand I cannot return your...affection."Cassandra Pentaghast dreamed that her answer had been different.





	In the Fade, Our Secrets Dream

_Inquisitor, I hope you understand I cannot return your...affection._

Cassandra dreamed that her answer had been different.

She is not in Skyhold. This is a nebulous place, not quite real, not quite following the rules. She takes one step, and she is in a forest thick with green, the ground blanketed with moss, and her feet are bare. She takes another, and she is in the Chantry, alone. Another, and she is _not_ alone. Women embrace in the alcoves, and the candlelight shines on their damp, naked bodies, and their grunts and moans press against the vaulted ceiling with more ecstasy than a thousand choirs — 

The Herald is here. She brings her lips to the place where Cassandra’s jaw meets her throat. Her pulse is hot and wild against those lips, and she burns with desire, with _need._ Her hands fumble for the Herald’s belt to try to draw her closer, but all she catches is smoke and ringing laughter.

 _I was wrong,_ she wants to scream. _I was wrong, and I wish I could take it back._

“Prove it,” a voice that is the Herald’s and yet not the Herald’s whispers in the dark.

Cassandra is in the forest again, lying beside a river. It is cool and quiet here. She plucks a flower from the grass and twirls it between her fingers, thinking of poetry. Wishing someone would write a poem for her someday. She brushes the flower down her cheek, imagines the petals are fingtertips. Imagines fingers on the buttons of her jerkin, on the soft skin above her collarbone, along her ribs, down her stomach.

 _May I kiss you, my lady?_ A gentle, feminine voice tickles her ear. _A kiss from your lips would inspire the dullest of poets to genius._

A sonnet is murmured in her ear. Those fingers slip under her shirt and massage her breasts. The poem is punctuated by a tongue running lightly around her nipple, then sucking on it, first delicately and then hard enough to make her gasp. Her thighs are wet.

 _I want you_ , she hisses. _I want you, Herald._

Bright green eyes stare intensely into hers, curious and wary all at once. Cassandra shrugs out of her jerkin, her tunic, unbuckles her belt. The Herald pulls her chemise over Cassandra’s head slowly, letting the hem tickle her olive skin, and bending to kiss each one of her scars as they appear. Then the Herald strips, straddles her comfortably, and on instinct, Cassandra’s hips buck upward, wanting, _wanting._

“Shh,” the Herald warns. They are back in the Chantry, naked. They huddle like thieves in a shadowed alcove while the sisters sing the Chant to a full crowd. Cassandra is pressed up against a pillar, and to her delight — a shocking delight, a thrill that catches her unaware — she is bound to it with velvet ropes.

“Comfortable?” the Herald asks.

“Come here,” Cassandra growls.

The Herald leans against her, hip to hip, and kisses her roughly. Her teeth tug on Cassandra’s lower lip, then settle on her shoulder, where she bites hard enough to leave a mark. Cassandra moans loudly, and her cheeks burn with shame and excitement, but no one comes to investigate. Perhaps they cannot hear, or perhaps the Maker sanctions this transgression — for surely they are praying, too, since the Herald has dropped to her knees?

“Kiss me,” Cassandra gasps again.

“Where, my lady?” The Herald presses her hands to the divot of the Seeker’s hips, framing her softest, most intimate places with her long fingers. Her lips brush the dark hair between Cassandra’s legs, then move teasingly higher, to her navel. “Here?”

“Lower,” she manages. The Herald’s mouth moves down, trailing kisses. “T-There!”

The Herald grins and flicks her tongue ever-so-lightly over Cassandra’s clit. She can’t move; the ropes keep her helpless and vulnerable as the Herald plays with her. Her tongue moves again, slowly, agonizingly, coaxing immeasurable pleasure from the Seeker’s body. Then a finger slides inside her, pushes her nearly to the brink, and Cassandra cries out for the whole Chantry to hear: “Yes! Don’t stop!”

They are lying together in Cassandra’s tiny, secluded bed. The stars wheel above them — there is no ceiling, no fortress, only sky. She feels dizzy, but the Herald’s head is still between her legs, and soon she relaxes. They have slept together almost every night for years now. It always feels as wonderful as the first time.

The Herald has three fingers inside her. The attentions of her tongue are patient, building to something. It’s unbearable. Cassandra clutches a fistful of the Herald’s hair in one hand and grinds against her mouth. Laughing, the Herald pulls away, although her fingers don’t stop their ministrations. With her free hand, she guides Cassandra’s hands between them, one to stroke the Herald and one to stroke herself.

“Good girl,” the Herald pants as she, too, fails to resist the urge to move against her lover’s hand. She tips her head back and Cassandra admires her long, tanned throat, which is darkened by mouth-shaped bruises. Suddenly, all Cassandra wants is to have this woman under her, squirming, begging for another kiss. She lets go of the Herald and pushes her hands away, then picks her up easily and lays her back on the bed.

“I want you,” she says urgently, and although she knows she’s said it a thousand times, the words feel new in her mouth. 

With one hand, she pins the Herald’s wrists above her head. (When she shifts, there are velvet ropes binding her lover to the headboard. She doesn’t think on it.) She hooks each of the other woman’s legs over her broad shoulders and bends her head to the wet, sweet place between them. The Herald weighs nothing; her gasps and little noises of pleasure are just as airy, and Cassandra never wants to stop hearing them. She dips her tongue inside her lover, then runs it upward, teasing more groans from her by way of her clit. She sucks on it lightly until the Herald whimpers.

“Do you want me to stop, my love?” she asks.

“Never.”

They are in the Divine’s chambers, sprawling on the plush carpets, a domed, painted ceiling overhead. Opulence is all around them: gold, jewels, silks, and all that velvet — the ropes binding the Herald’s hands behind her back, keeping her thighs parted. Her face is flushed and desperate.

“Are you sure?” Cassandra asks, smirking. She circles the Herald’s clit with her thumb, once. “You look tired.”

“Don’t you dare,” she gasps.

Cassandra grins and slides inside her again, pleased by the feel of the straps around her hips, the double-ended contraption moving inside her, too, as she fucks her beautiful wife. She alternates between touching her clit and rubbing the Herald’s, bringing them both closer and closer to the edge, but refusing to rush over it. How many times has the Herald teased her like this, delayed her orgasm until Cassandra couldn’t stand it, only to make them both cum with such intensity that Cassandra could barely speak afterward? This is only fair.

“Harder,” the Herald begs. Her back arches as she tries to thrust against Cassandra, who carefully pulls away. Her brows come together. Pleading.

“Ask nicely.”

“Please, my lady.”

“Beg.”

“Maker help me, Cassandra, please, _please_ fuck me so hard I forget my own name.”

Cassandra obliges. She closes her eyes and loses herself in the rhythm. Faster. Deeper. Her fingers are on her clit, on the Herald’s, and then — there is the briefest vertigo — _she_ is bound and suspended in the void, and there is a tongue all but torturing her with pleasurable little licks, and — 

— they are back on a bed of moss. The Herald sucks on her nipples, grinds her body against the Seeker’s, bites the soft skin above her breast, fingers her with the precision of a musician playing an instrument — 

— they are in the Chantry, fucking each other in the middle of the service, and Cassandra is giving as good as she gets, digging her nails into the Herald’s shoulder as she thrusts against her, and that _tongue_ is somehow still between her legs — 

It’s all happening at once, and it’s too _much,_ Cassandra feels like she will die of it, and then — and then —

Falling. Her mind reaches a heavenly plane while her body shudders helplessly below, each tremor waking a new sensation. Then there is nothing. Silence.

Oblivion.

Cassandra opened her eyes. She was alone in her own room. The fire crackled warmly below, and the darkness still pressed at the windows. Yesterday, she had told the Herald that she could not love her back. That she could not love _any_ woman that way. That was her answer. That was the _truth._

And yet, she had no explanation for her sweaty sheets, for the wetness between her legs and coating her fingers, or for the lingering desire that glowed like a coal in her stomach.

The Seeker lay awake for a long time. Then she closed her eyes and wished for more dreams.


End file.
